


Kindling for the Flame

by kyber-erso (aoraki), tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, No one eats any eggs, Obi-Wan has read too many books, Qui-Gon is a baffled father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoraki/pseuds/kyber-erso, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: In the the early days of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, Qui-Gon asks him to build a fire.“It’s not a very good fire, is it, Master Jinn?”The tiny bier sparks and sputters before them. It is a tentative blaze, flicking thin tongues of light over the upright logs of the structure. Occasionally, a more daring tendril touches upon a wet piece of brush, hissing and spitting in outrage, before withdrawing to the tightly bundled packet of Temple issued kindling to sulk, then summoning the courage to venture forth again. It is a little too tall, and the kindling a little too dense, but even still the flame is catching. It is still growing.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98
Collections: Backwards QuiObi Bang





	Kindling for the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> This is late, but for my heart kyber-erso or [kyber-erso](https://kyber-erso.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. 
> 
> The art is hers. This inspiration is hers. These words are borrowed from her. Thank you for sharing!!!!

* * *

“It’s not a very good fire, is it, Master Jinn?”

The tiny bier sparks and sputters before them. It is a tentative blaze, flicking thin tongues of light over the upright logs of the structure. Occasionally, a more daring tendril touches upon a wet piece of brush, hissing and spitting in outrage, before withdrawing to the tightly bundled packet of Temple issued kindling to sulk, then summoning the courage to venture forth again. It is a little too tall, and the kindling a little too dense, but even still the blaze gets brighter. It is still growing.

Qui-Gon regards his pupil as his pupil regards the fire. His face is furrowed in displeasure, lines running across his forehead making him look as wizened as Master Yoda, but his cheeks are round, and his eyes still wide open to the world.

“It is not a perfect fire,” the master concedes. “But it is quite sturdy. And look -! The flames are catching already.”

Obi-Wan throws him a glance burning with skepticism, before turning his face quickly back to the fire. This close, and the air before them turns fluid, and Obi-Wan’s shame and fear flow through it to wash over Qui-Gon. _Such a strange reaction,_ the master thinks, _to feel shame and fear in the face of praise_. Such a strange thing for him to have to counter, after years of tempering arrogance. Such a strange little creature he is so suddenly attached to. 

“It is a perfectly competent attempt,” he ventures.

Beside him, Obi-Wan wilts further, heat blazing across his cheeks. Perhaps that was not quite right, Qui-Gon observes, though perhaps they are simply standing too close to the fire.

“Come, Padawan,” he says, and reaches out his hand to Obi-Wan.

Though he does not reach back, the boy also does not hesitate to obey, moving in the direction of the gesture to gather his pack from where it lies in the dust, next to the grazing fathier they arrived on. Qui-Gon collects his own, and together they pitch a small tent by firelight. They work in silence, though Qui-Gon can feel his Padawan stealing glances, and he catches himself sneaking a few of his own.

Their pairing was traumatic, the months since could be considered chaotic at best, and Qui-Gon is still a stranger to his charge. Already, they’ve dealt with pirates, and slavery, and greed - already Obi-Wan has seen the vengeful ghosts of Qui-Gon’s past, and Qui-Gon has seen the banked resentment of Obi-Wan’s. They are both wounded, and now, here, in the midst of a mission, they are finally, at last, alone with each other. In the middle of the Gaiyaharu Plains, Qui-Gon thinks they might have a chance at peace.

“Obi-Wan,” he says. “Would you be so good as to fetch the rations pack from my satchel?”

The boy nods. “Yes, master.”

He trots off, and Qui-Gon collects a small pot, and a canteen filled with fresh water. He weighs it in his hand, feeling the balance tip the slim capsule from left to right. _Yes,_ he thinks. _There is enough._

He steps closer to the fire, staying within the circle of heat, but well enough away that the flames cannot sting his face with their ire. Obi-Wan joins him, the pack is dutifully handed over, and Qui-Gon settles on the ground. Long reeds of dark green grass fold beneath him to cushion his joints, and Obi-Wan stoops to sit as well. He looks curiously at Qui-Gon, then to the fire, his focus shifting from one to the other as the master drops into a light trance, and time passes. Qui-Gon’s eyes are closed, but he can still feel the weight of his gaze, and the anticipation of speech tiptoeing over Obi-Wan’s tongue.

“Master?” he braves, at last, his voice thin with concern. “Should we not add another log to the fire? It’s burning out.”

“Leave it, Padawan,” Qui-Gon replies. 

“Yes, master,” the boy says, resuming his critical assessment of the flames.

The master gives his charge another moment or two to centre himself, but Obi-Wan neither grows outraged, nor falls into acceptance. Instead, a whisper of disquiet seems to sink into him, sitting heavy against his bones as though quite comfortable there. Qui-Gon cannot quite understand this indulgence. Xanatos would sulk like a thundercloud, and he knows his own tendencies towards proud defiance, but this...this _wallowing_ is new. It is quiet, it is deep, and it seems like any small thing is as likely to push him deeper as it is to pull him out of it. 

“The logs need to burn low enough for a pot to be laid over it. Then, we shall cook by the heat of the coals.”

“Oh,” says Obi-Wan, perking up at that. Qui-Gon would congratulate himself, yet thinks the prospect of food as likely an inspiration as his explanation. This is confirmed when a moment later, Obi-Wan asks, “What’s for latemeal?”

Qui-Gon grins as he shakes the pouch of protein dust at the Padawan. “You should know,” he teases. “You delivered them.”

“Rations,” Obi-Wan says, his voice falling along with his enthusiasm. “Again.”

“Yes, Padawan. Again.”

But _this_ disappointment does not linger. Obi-Wan throws back his shoulders and lifts his chin. “I don’t mind rations,” he declares. “Master Seva says that in times of scarcity, the nourishment of the soul can just as well feed the hunger of the body.”

“Indeed?” questions Qui-Gon, amusement tickling the edges of his moustache.

“Indeed,” the boy agrees. “He also says that sometimes the hunger of the body is necessary in order for us to best feed our soul.”

“Oh, so this dinner with me is to be an exercise in forbearance, then.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head. He pauses, as though suspicious of Qui-Gon’s humour but not certain of it. “As I said, master,” he tenders, “the rations themselves are no hardship to me. Any further conclusions you may make must be drawn at your own discretion.”

At this, Qui-Gon laughs. A moment later, Obi-Wan laughs too.

Qui-Gon pours the powder into the pot, adding a bare teaspoon of water before holding it low over the fire. In a few moments, the dampened rations have reconstituted into a coarse loaf of hardtack. He splits it in two, and passes half to the Padawan, then, holding his own portion between his teeth, he wipes the pot clean with the edge of his sleeve and sets it upside down by the edge of the pit. That done, he settles down beside Obi-Wan again. He tucks his legs, criss-crossed beneath them, and so does Obi-Wan. He takes a bite of his tack. The bread is dry, and flavorless, but he hums in appreciation nonetheless, and so does Obi-Wan. He cocks his head at the boy, and Obi-Wan tilts his head to match. He laughs, and so does Obi-Wan.

They consume the rest of their rations with alacrity, and Qui-Gon passes the canteen of water to Obi-Wan first.

“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t drink too much.”

Obi-Wan takes only the barest sip, then passes it back to his master. 

“You can have more than that,” Qui-Gon insists.

“That’s alright, Master,” he says. “I’m not that thirsty, anyway.”

“Ah, well, in that case,” Qui-Gon says, leaning his weight on the words as he rises to his feet. The flames have grown quiet, the embers burning white and red, as he sticks the pot deep into their grip. He pours most of the canteen into the vessel, sparing as little as necessary - tomorrow they will arrive at their ship, and this country is veined with dozens of little freshwater streams - and waits for the water to boil. From the ration pack, he takes another, smaller sachet and tips its contents into the pot. It takes a minute or two to dissolve, which Obi-Wan spends shifting impatiently behind him. He has made no inquiries, and he has not moved from his spot, but he cranes his neck this way and that to get a clearer look as Qui-Gon pours the warm contents from the pot into a tin cannikin.

Qui-Gon resumes his seat with another satisfied groan, and continues as though his unfinished sentence still hung in the air. “In _that_ case,” he says. “I suppose you won’t mind if I drink this all myself.”

Obi-Wan shifts to his knees.

“Mm, delicious,” the master declares.

Obi-Wan bites his lip.

“Can you smell that?”

The steam rises thick and sweet from the cup, and Obi-Wan leans in to inhale.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Hot choko,” Qui-Gon replies, taking another long draught. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“I _might_ ,” the boy protests.

“I thought you said you weren’t thirsty,” Qui-Gon says. He draws his brows together, looking at Obi-Wan critically from beneath their furry stroke.

“Well, I -” Obi-Wan says, then stops, hoist with his own petard. Then he starts again, circling round with a new approach. “I’m not thirsty,” he says. “Only I think it might be to my edification if I were to _try_ some.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and since you are - are sworn to my education and training, it is also within the scope of your _own_ best interest to give me some.”

“Ah,” says Qui-Gon.

“With due respect, master,” Obi-Wan amends.

Qui-Gon leans back to contemplate the stars, seeking wisdom from their ancient flames. “Well,” he hums, as Obi-Wan waits. “Since you have argued so eloquently, and so logically, I suppose I have no choice. After all, it is my honour that is at stake as well.”

So he pours a generous amount of the drink into another cannikin he has conjured from the folds of his robes, as Obi-Wan shuffles closer in expectation. He hands the cup over, and watches as first his Padawan wraps his hands around the mug, savouring the warmth of it, breathes deeply to relish the scent, and then lifts the vessel to his lips to take a tentative sip.

The liquid hits his tongue nearly the same instant his eyes fly open in shock.

“It’s _delicious_!” he exclaims.

“Surely you’ve tasted choko before?”

“I had a Bama bar once, after festival,” Obi-Wan explains. “And my old crechemaster used to keep a jar of honeydrops in his office, but we only got those if we’d misbehaved.”

“You received sweets for bad behaviour?” Qui-Gon asks.

“In recognition of overcoming it,” Obi-Wan explains. “Master Troon always talked us through anything _really_ bad, so that we might understand ourselves better, and avoid repeating it in the future.”

“Hm,” Qui-Gon acknowledges, thinking of the swiftness of anger, and fear he’d seen only a few months prior. 

Obi-Wan takes this in his typically inexplicable way. “I had _lots_ of honeydrops,” he says.

But that is something to think about later, and Qui-Gon inhales noisily to scare of the creeping doubt.

“And how does your experienced palate find hot choko?”

Obi-Wan licks his lips, tapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth in careful evaluation.

“I think it is quite my favourite,” he says.

“Is that so?” asks Qui-Gon. “Well, then you had better drink the rest. I’m not thirsty, after all.”

And with that, he tips the rest of the liquid into Obi-Wan’s cup, rising to stoke the embers into bright passion once more, and together they sit, a new contentment radiating between them.

Qui-Gon regards his pupil as his pupil regards the fire, and he notices something new. There is a little spot - a mole, or freckle - just below his right eye, slightly too big for his face. Qui-Gon thinks it rather endearing, as though he has been marked for some future purpose, some future promise that he will aspire to, as surely as he will come into his features. There is such potential. For now he is young, clumsy, and self-conscious, just like his fire. But he is growing. And so is Qui-Gon. And they shall kindle each other.

  
  



End file.
